


hear my heart call

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Canon, Recovery, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: A look back.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames
Comments: 22
Kudos: 64





	hear my heart call

It’s the sand that vexes him.

It may be that James is merely thorough in his appearance, having no desire to look less than ideal; or it may be that he detests the feeling of grit in his shoes, his skin left raw by the coarse stones. The aversion, however, is not mutual, and a wild round shot blasts sand over James’s head as his party makes land.

James heaves himself from the boat and jumps with a splash into the Syrian coastline. It is the fourth day of their battery, three days of gunnery and soldiery well past. The seashore is littered with debris and shrapnel, and at each step James has to keep watch lest sharp debris pierce his feet.

They pull the boat to shore amidst a shower of hot bullets. The five-pounder is gently unloaded, and at James’s command they haul the gun towards a nearby block of loosely guarded masonry. James takes up a count and the company moves in time. Forward. Forward. Heave-ho.

It makes no matter. 

The enemy retreats while the marines rush to claim their outposts, and instead of gunnery, James is left to clear the rubble so that tents can be pitched along the shoreline. He sets to the task with a well-concealed resentment. The sun shines brightly and renders the sea air dry. His boots fill with dirt, sticky and hot. A midshipman gives him water.

James grumbles his thanks and the young man beams. 

“Was it terribly bloody, Lieutenant?” the boy asks. He has a glint of adventure in his eye. “I was raring to go, but the captain said I was likely to be offed as soon as I landed. Not that I believed him, mind. It’s too lovely a place to die.” 

James surveys the sad wreckage around them and ponders on what the lad considers as ‘lovely’. It surely could have been, once, but not after their incursion. The thin strip of sand in the bay has turned black with gunpowder, and the buildings in the port beyond now bear the marks of heavy shelling.

James summons a smile and pats the young man on the shoulder. “Quite right,” he says. “You won’t be dying on a beach, Mr. Fairholme.”

The lad cocks his head, a curious look on his face.

“How do you know that, sir?”

.

Sweat trickles coolly inside James’s stifling uniform. He scales the wall and lands clumsily on the dusty ground. He draws his sword, finds it missing, and pilfers another from the fallen soldier on the ground. 

When James turns the corpse to give his thanks, he sees the face of the cheery fellow who had scampered up right before him. So much for Caesar crossing the Rubicon. James rises to his feet and joins Hodgson, and together they lead their unit through the winding streets and acrid smoke of Zhenjiang. 

James is not lacking in his share of battles—in riverbanks, in shorelines, but never like this when the enemy is beyond the powers of sight. The haze is so thick that they lose their bearings twice, one of their lot falling behind at each turn. It’s the noise, James thinks, the discordance of gunfire and groaning that clouds a man with fear.

They reach a corner and find a small group of Tatars throwing potshots at the 49th. Hodgson bellows to open fire, but when James pulls the trigger, his rifle’s hammer wedges in place, stuck. 

James cusses and stumbles through their supplies, pawing for any weapon at his disposal. He spots the rocket and carries it to the front with a mount. The chap beside him rears backward, dead, and James grits his teeth as he struggles to light a match. 

“Come back,” he hears above the racket. Fire flicks to life in his hands and James quickly lights the wick. 

“Come back,” he hears again. One of their lot must have addled off in the fray. James adjusts the rocket and aims, but then he hears the command again, gentle and soft, as if spoken right to his ear: 

“Come back. Please.”

He furrows his brow and turns, and just as he does a sharp sensation blooms fiercely at his side. James falls to his back, near blind with pain, and when he chances to look up at the sky he finds it the color of fire, a sunset in the middle of the day. He gasps in surprise. The air tastes of meat. 

.

_HMS Ganges_ rocks ever so smoothly as James examines his work on the table. Not a half mile away is his next objective, an Egyptian camp filled with weary men and restless officers. To undermine them is the purpose of James’s mission, acclaim having been promised to the man who completes the task and survives to tell it. 

The lamps in the Great Cabin flicker as James stoops over the notices. His instructions demand that the message be rhetorical yet direct, logical but fanciful, and able to incite feelings in the enemy to desert their own officers. 

“Are you certain?” he hastily scribbles. An odd turn of phrase, but stagey enough to get attention. 

James recalls enough of the language and translates it into a fresh sheet. He looks out at the stern windows and finds the Med a muted purple, like a fine, sunshiny night, and the view builds him into a passion to finish the pamphlet by day’s end. 

He sets off three nights hence with a thousand copies stowed in his satchel. By noon the following day James is rowing back to the flagship, with a fresh story ready for regaling. The gangway descends as he recalls the Egyptian soldiers reading his proclamations.

“Hal ‘ant mtakd?” one of them kept saying. “Hal ‘ant mtakd, hmm?” 

.

  
  


James recounts the tale as he eyes the Lords of the Admiralty like a fox — for displeasure, unease, or any sign that they doubt this venture and the men who will lead it. He takes his place by Sir John’s side, the very portrait of a naval hero. Yes, he keeps saying. Yes, he served in the Euphrates. And in the Cornwallis too. They smile and nod sagely and James is thrilled, elated at their approval.

He gives them a thorough tour of the ship, from crow’s nest to hold, and has to ease Lord Haddington from fiddling with the steam engine. This is the only picture of the ship that they are willing to see, when it has not been overrun with sailors and rats and enough coal to cover the Arctic black. 

When that bit of business is done, James is left to prepare for the engine trials tomorrow. He looks up at the masts and runs a hand over the smooth wood of the gunwale. This is his, he thinks. _Erebus_ is his, to command and preserve. He wishes for nothing more.

“All well, Captain?”

James whirls round to the welcome face of Dundy regarding him with a grin. “It’s still Commander, I’m afraid,” he says, “though when we set sail, you will have leave to call me Captain.”

Dundy joins him in the gunwale and together they stare out at Woolwich, the last scrap of London they will likely sight in three years. “I heard that the old lords were coming and wanted to watch you charm their wigs off. It went well, I imagine.”

“Exceedingly well,” James says, “though I’m sorry Captain Crozier couldn’t join us.”

They both turn to port, where _Terror_ is anchored with a few first-rates. 

“Why didn’t he come, do you reckon?” asks Dundy. “One would think he would be grateful for being Second, for being here at all.”

“Mayhaps he’s peevish of his own ship.”

“Or loath to leave his cups.” 

Dundy beams as he playfully elbows at James’s side. “He’s a fine sailor, I hear, but blimey am I glad to be berthing with you! I’d be sorry to share the wardroom with a joyless bore.”

“Don’t say that.”

There is an aching in James’s belly, a kind of twisting, wholly distinct from hunger or illness. 

“If you see him, if you only see him, Dundy, as he is and not the shadow that engulfs him, you’ll think him the finest captain you will ever have served. He’s, oh he’s good—there’s no better word for it. And kind. So kind in fact that when I begged him, when I asked him to… to….” 

The breath leaves James in earnest and his shoulders sag. He tries to go on but his thoughts are flurried, distant, like reaching for something beyond a great gulf. A hand squeezes his arm gently.

“Are you comfortable, James?” asks Dundy. But it’s not Dundy. Not at all.

.

“I would like that very much,” James says. A single, happy tear trails down his cheek, but his joy is short-lived.

A scuttling rings somewhere in the fog and James wastes no time in swinging his rifle forward. Beside him, Francis picks up his ice-axe, ready for a throw.

They should not have come together. Every officer would concur that the highest in rank should be kept apart in a crisis, lest disaster fell on them at once. But James had insisted, pleaded even, and Francis was wont to deny him. 

“James.”

If they do not return, Dundy will surely send a party to discover what has become of them. He and Mr. Blanky will work out a plan, and if there is mercy in the world, the men will be pressed for time and bury them in one grave.

_“James.”_

Francis lightly yanks at James’s sleeve and tugs him to the present. James blinks, dumbfounded, and follows the tilt of Francis’s chin to a small animal fluttering on the ground. It is a gull, white-breasted with a dark ring around its neck. A bit of dirt is stuck on its grey wing, and James fancies that the bird regards them with a timid set to its head, ashamed of its predicament.

“There’s your Creature,” Francis says with a chuckle. James takes a deep breath and lets out a wet sigh of relief. He closes his eyes, dizzy from dark thoughts, and feels a gloved hand press at his shoulder.

“If you are this quick to raise your weapon, then there is no doubt as to how you survived two wars in succession.” 

There is wonder in Francis’s words, and affection. James laps it up like a hungry pup, raising a hand to meet Francis’s and giving it a firm squeeze. Even this motion sends pain in the joints of his fingers.

“I want to survive this expedition, Francis,” he says, his voice thin and weary.

“You will.”

James only shakes it off and avoids Francis’s gaze. There is no denying it now, and he wonders how Francis can keep his composure. At this distance even he must see it, must confront the ring of dried blood lining James’s crown. 

“You will live, do you hear me? You will live, James. But first there is something you need to do.”

There are times when a man can see his whole future before him, a neat road on a straight path, and there are times when that vision is laid waste, the route reduced to sand and dirt, reset. That is what James sees when Francis takes his hand and raises it to his lips. The breath leaves James completely. He sways on his feet. His entire body feels like it is collapsing from its own weight.

Francis seems taller, no, higher, and when he lifts his head from the kiss, he has the look of a man who hasn’t slept in days. He presses James’s hand to his wet cheek and lets out a single sob, a final, frantic plea:

“Wake up.”


End file.
